


untitled

by icygrace



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2523308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icygrace/pseuds/icygrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s really all the king’s fault. If Henry had never “helped” her that first time and persuaded her into his bed, she may well have never sought out his son’s advice in order to stay in it and fallen into bed with him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Reign does not belong to me and certain conversations or pieces thereof which happened on the show definitely do not belong to me.
> 
> AU after Episode 1.4 (Hearts and Minds). Kenna still becomes Henry’s mistress, but ends up sleeping with Bash after going to him for advice for a second time later in her liaison with his father. Playing fast and loose with the timeline and order of events, as well as altering/adding/eliminating events, since this is an AU.
> 
> This is my first Reign fic. Hope you enjoy!

The first time she seeks Bash, she’s quite green. She wants to learn how she might retain his father’s attention before agreeing to be his mistress and she’s grateful for Bash’s advice, but that’s all.

 

The second time she seeks Bash out is after she’s already warmed the king’s bed for some time and knows her hold on him is slipping. She’s already ruined herself for Henry, so she’s not about to give up without a fight.  

 

This second conversation isn’t terribly enlightening. Not because Bash doesn’t try – although aiding Kenna is against his own self-interest, as Kenna keeping the king’s attention means it’s not on his mother – but because Kenna is distracted. This particular night, she isn’t entirely absorbing what Bash says because she’s too busy watching _how_ he says it, his profile as he looks down below – she’s not sure at what, precisely, since there’s nobody out there, the rough timbre of his voice, the line of his throat as he swallows his wine. She has a lot of opportunities to observe the latter, as Bash refills their goblets as soon as they’re empty.

 

There’s no denying how handsome Bash is, in a wild sort of way. She noticed that the very first time she saw him, when she mistook him for Francis. In truth (in her opinion), he’s far handsomer than Francis. More like King Henry, he reminds her of her countrymen, a . . . _virile_ sort of man.

 

Tonight, those thoughts stir up the same arousal she’d felt on the stairs after watching Princess Elizabeth and her new husband consummate their marriage, before the king had “helped” her.

 

Tonight, her skin, her bones, her _blood_ all feel warm, so warm, warmer and warmer as she imagines Bash in his father’s place.

 

She slides her suddenly restless fingers under her thigh so they’re trapped beneath her and unable to wander.

 

She tries to remind herself that a victory without effort is worse than a defeat. _Like father, like son._ But she can’t help herself. She kisses him anyway.

 

\---

 

Unlike the king, Bash is kind.

 

No, that’s not right. Yes, he’s kind, but that’s not what she means. He’s . . . passionate, yes, but not in the manner of his father, who gets entirely swept away in his own pleasure. He’s generous in bed. He cares about her experience, wants it to be good for her, and _makes_ it good for her.

 

At one point, she looks down at him in disbelief as he kneels before her, like a subject before his sovereign, wondering aloud in disbelief, “Do people really _do_ this?”

 

When his ministrations cease for a moment as he chuckles against her, she feels his laughter all over and feels truly sorry for those who haven’t.

 

The king’s demanded similar attentions when she’s with him, many times, but has never attempted to reciprocate. It would never have occurred to her to ask him to.

 

But Bash didn’t need to be asked and she’s beyond grateful. It’s better than anything she’s ever experienced. In fact, she’s so caught up in her pleasure that she’s completely unmindful of how painful her tight grip on his hair might be as she praises him and God in the same breath. 

 

\---

 

After her night with Bash, she finds herself all but dancing out of the king’s grasp.

 

In turn, the king wants her more than ever. So like a little boy Henry is, wanting his forgotten toy the second it’s denied to him.

 

But now it’s not a ploy. She simply doesn’t _want_ him anymore. She knows she needs his cooperation to catch a husband who won’t care that she’s used goods, but she can’t bring herself to care. She indulges mindless fantasies of future trysts with Bash.

 

But Bash ignores her, avoids her eye and leaves any room she enters, making her feel completely self-conscious. _Perhaps sleeping with his father’s lover once is a careless mistake, but twice is a travesty._ She feels unaccountably disappointed at the thought.

 

But it’s not nearly as bad as she feels the next time they fall into bed together, when she discovers that’s not the problem.

 

She hoped for a repeat of their first night together, but this time he’s drunk and careless and breathes a name not her own into her skin.

 

\---

 

She’s alone in his bed when she wakes up, but she sees him at the mirror when she turns over, hastily readying himself for the day. You aim very high for a bastard,” she tells him in the airy, cutting way she hides behind when she’s most uncertain.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, not turning to looking at her.

 

She can see his uneasy face in the mirror and feels rather savagely proud of herself – her Scots asserting itself for once – for provoking it. “Why, you lust after my queen. Your brother’s _betrothed_ ,” she reminds him.

 

He immediately turns to look at her. “What –”

 

“You called me Mary last night. Several times, as a matter of fact.”

 

His face doesn’t flame like she expects. He goes very, very pale and she realizes she’s frightened him, remembers just how dangerous it is for a bastard to aim so high.

 

It takes the fight out of her. “I won’t tell,” she promises, self-consciously pulling the sheets closer to cover her nakedness.

 

He nods brusquely and leaves her alone in his bedchamber, no doubt wishing for her to make herself presentable and leave as quickly as possible.

 

\---

 

After that night, she feels tired of men.

 

She’s rather proud of herself for being mature enough not to return to Henry out of spite. She’s growing up, but it’s not the sort of thing you can brag to anyone about.

 

Eventually Henry grows impatient, soon losing interest and returning to Diane de Poitiers’ welcoming embrace.

 

Nearly from the moment he left her alone in his bed, their son is busy usurping his brother’s place as future king of France and future husband to the Queen of Scots.

 

\---

 

Eventually, Kenna realizes that something is . . . off.

 

It takes rather longer than one would expect and would have taken even longer if not for her maid. “Lady Kenna,” she begins hesitantly.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you well?”

 

She really hasn’t been, but her “yes, thank you” is automatic. “Why do you ask?”

 

“It’s been some time since you’ve . . . needed cloths for your monthlies,” her maid finishes delicately, flushing.

 

Kenna suddenly feels her blood rushing in her ears, but all she says is, “I’ve always been . . . irregular, you know. But do you happen to remember how long? I don’t recall.”

 

“Two months, thereabouts.”

 

She starts checking off symptoms in her head, symptoms her mother had detailed with uncharacteristic bluntness the last time they’d seen each other, fearing she might never have the opportunity to discuss those crucial facts of life with her only daughter face-to-face. _Missed menses_ , of course. _Nausea. Fatigue. Tenderness in the breasts._

Each and every one.

 

“Say nothing of this to anyone.”

 

“My lady –”

 

“Swear it.”

 

“Not a word, my lady.”

 

\---

 

She can’t sleep that first night for worrying, has no idea how she could possibly get herself out of this. At court, she’s heard tell all kinds of things: teas women take, pregnancies hidden in the countryside or even at court, children left at the castle gates as foundlings and mothers resuming their lives as though nothing had happened.

 

But none of those things are viable options for her. It’s too late for the teas, the wizened old woman her maid accompanies her to see tells her. She cannot leave court because she’s in service to her queen and as yet unmarried, but she’s naturally so slender that her condition will likely be too obvious for her to hide. Though she’s no good with children (the youngest of her own family, she’s never had to look out for anyone) and doesn’t particularly like them, the idea of carrying a child and giving it up to be raised by another seems dreadful.

 

When they return to court, she has no appetite and simply bids her maid to brush her hair out for bed.

 

Through all hundred strokes, she plots. But she comes back to the same conclusion, a singular choice: she must find a father for her child. The question is _who_.

 

Does she lay the child at Henry’s feet, claiming she conceived the last time she was in his bed?

 

Does she hold her tongue and press the king to keep his promise and hope the man he finds her will take her as she is? Perhaps a widower who already has heirs and simply wants a young, beautiful wife with a respectable dowry, who might be wooed with the promise of royal favor or perhaps fruitful lands, would serve her well. 

 

(She refuses to consider the child’s real father, now engaged to her best friend and queen.)

 

\---

 

One might say the king got her into this mess. After all if he’d never “helped” her that first time and persuaded her into his bed, she may well have never sought out his son’s advice in order to stay in it and fallen into bed with _him_ instead.

 

It’s also the king who gets her out of the mess, in the worst possible way.

 

The king has a small group – his family, including his daughter-in-law and her ladies – roused from their beds on pain of death, all wearing identical horrified looks, save a barely-conscious Queen Catherine. 

 

Henry ignores those looks as he forces them to watch a farce of a wedding and ignores Kenna’s pleas and tears as he compels her to take part in it.

 

“Please, this is marriage, it can’t be undone!”

 

She’s seen it and now she _knows_ it: the king is mad, utterly mad, and completely immoveable. But he has kept his word and found her a husband.

 

Or rather, half-kept his word. Henry has found her a husband and this husband even has the benefit of being young and handsome, but he is neither rich nor titled when those are the only things Kenna sought in a husband.

 

His hands are like iron around her own as he says his vows in a clear, carrying voice and she can’t help but cry harder.

 

“I, Sebastian, take this woman to be my lawful wife under the eyes of God, from this day forward . . .”

 

\---

 

“Your shaving mirror is useless,” she complains the next morning. She’d woken up early to be thoroughly sick and had had to tread extra lightly not to wake him. She feels annoyed with the world, as though the shining sun outside is a personal affront to her misery.

 

“We’ll have your dressing table and mirror brought in.”

 

“And where would they go?” There’s no _room_. And when the baby comes . . . “I don’t understand why I couldn’t stay in my old chambers.”

 

“Because you’re married.”

 

“Yes, I know. To the king’s bastard, no less –” With whom she’s going to have a child, who will never be able to inherit a title from a father who doesn’t have one. But at least her child won’t be a bastard, too. There’s that small comfort.  “When I asked for a man of title.”

 

“The king gave me one.”

 

“The Master of Horse and Hunt? That’s something Henry made up.” It was a response to her hysterics, when she just should’ve kept calm and accepted her fate, that she was partly getting what she wanted (a husband, a father for her child, once she’d even wanted Bash himself) in the worst way. She’s ashamed of the scene she made, but she’ll never let on, not to Bash. “It comes with no wealth, no land. The title I was expecting was the Duke of Anjou, with a chateau in Anjou, with a suite of rooms in Anjou.”

 

“You act as though this were my fault. I’m no happier than you.”

 

“You? What do you have to complain about?” She may not be a _queen_ , but he’s no longer about to be legitimized. He should consider himself lucky.“You’re now married to a beautiful woman of noble birth.”

 

“Who’s notorious for sleeping with my father. I see no awkwardness there.”

 

“Yes, well . . . it’s not like you cared about that when you slept with me.” He doesn’t take the bait, so she shrugs. “It’s all in the past.”

 

“Is it? We both know Henry. We know he enjoys the privileges of kingship. As you enjoy the privileges of . . . whatever it is a relationship with my father can get you.”

 

“You make it sound as though I’m the most self-centered woman in France.”

 

“Oh, I can’t say that. I haven’t met all the women in France.”

 

“Fine. Then all I care about is me. And all you care about is Mary. I know that quite well.”

 

He winces.

 

She wonders whether “you called me Mary” will be a weapon in her arsenal for the rest of her life, even as she tries to assuage his guilt. There’s no point. They’ve got to focus on him getting his feelings under control, because it’s not safe for either of them. Or the baby. “I’m not jealous, truly. But a love like that could destroy both of our lives.”

 

“She’s married. It’s in the past.” He sighs. “All right, yes, I see your point. We both need to keep our pasts in the past. This is our life now, Kenna. It’s not what we chose, but we’re married before king and God, till death. I won’t pretend I love you, but . . . we should probably start liking each other at least.”

 

_I won’t pretend I love you, but . . . we should probably start liking each other at least._

 

She can’t admit even to herself that the words wound her. She would never delude herself into thinking that he loves her, but if asked, she would’ve said he probably liked her. At the very least, she wouldn’t have thought he _dis_ liked her. Once he’s left again, she puts a hand to her stomach, unsure if she’s trying to contain her ever-present nausea or protect her child from the ugliness of her forced marriage.

 

\---

 

The following day when he returns to his rooms, Bash pulls something out of his pocket: a small, unremarkable ring, which he immediately presents to her.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“A wedding ring. It’s modest, I know. It belonged to my grandmother.”

 

“Oh. I thought Diane de Poitiers came from money.”

 

“Well, if you don’t want it –”

 

“I didn’t say that. It’s just, well, why?”

 

“We’re married. We can’t be un-married. I thought we’d agreed to at least try.”

 

 _Is this what the rest of my life is going to be like? Settling? Financially, romantically, in every way possible?_ “How romantic,” she laughs wryly, slipping the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly. She wonders if Bash’s grandmother wore her ring more happily, and if so, whether that happiness might rub off on her somehow. She hopes so.

 

“Well, there’s a promising start.”

 

For the first time, she feels a little less hopeless – maybe even the slightest bit hopeful – about their situation.

 

\---

 

She fears for that promising start when Mary asks something of her, something rather dangerous for the sake of their country.

 

“There’s a special paper I need to find and –” Mary doesn’t look nearly apologetic enough, considering what she asks next. “It’s in Henry’s chambers.”

 

“Mary, the king’s lost his mind! I’d be taking my own life –” _And my child’s_ – “Into my hands. Also, I’m a married woman and I promised Bash.” And she wants to keep her word. She wants to have a good marriage someday and they can’t if she can’t keep her word.

 

“I understand.”

 

But Kenna’s not sure that she _does_. That Mary cares enough about her, about Bash, about the tenuousness of their marriage to understand what it would mean for her to break her promise.

 

“And if you can’t do it, I won’t press you. But you should know what I need you to look for. Henry and Catherine . . . have betrayed the alliance. They deceived me into signing a contract that gives our Scotland to the French. If I die without an heir, Scotland will lose her freedom.”

 

She has no choice. None at all, because she simply cannot allow that to happen.

 

It’s a sadly familiar feeling.

 

\---

 

“The king is not in his chambers, Lady Kenna.”

 

“He asked me to wait for him.”

 

They don’t even bat an eye at a married woman – and former mistress or no, Kenna is now the king’s _daughter-in-law_ (how strange that sounds) – entering the king’s chambers alone once she says it.

 

She begins searching the moment the door closes behind her and finally, she finds what she’s looking for. “In case of wife’s death . . .”

 

“My lord!”

 

She’s done for. _Oh, God, this is how it ends._

 

“Kenna.” Henry closes the door behind him. “I know why you’re here.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“You miss me.”

 

Her heart hammers in her chest and his hands on her make her feel _filthy_ ,even as she’s grateful he doesn’t seem to notice the slight, growing curve of her belly beneath her dress (because _God_ , what if he thinks it’s his?). So she makes the first excuse she can think of (she’s . . . bleeding and accordingly fatigued) and backs out of the room before he can demand she get on her knees and service him _at the very least, Kenna_ , never mind the fact that he’s only recently forced her to marry his son.  
  
She orders a bath the moment she returns to Bash’s quarters and feels the _slightest_ bit better by the time she must go to the Great Hall.

 

\---

 

In the Great Hall, she considers her situation.

 

After Mary chose Francis over Bash and Francis resumed his rightful place at court, Bash remained the bastard he always was: a royal bastard, yes, but that means little. The king has never given him his name or a title or lands or an income of his own. His rooms at court are barely worth mentioning. All he has is his ridiculous new title: _Master of Horse and Hunt_. Honestly!

 

As if that isn’t bad enough, Kenna’s only just learned that she’ll have even less than she thought.

 

When she was younger, her father had settled a not-insignificant dowry on her – not so vast that she didn’t want to marry rich, but large enough that she would’ve settled for a man who was landed and comfortable if he had a good title.

 

Somehow, word of her liaison with King Henry never reached her parents in Scotland. But her father did find out what Henry had done with regards to her marriage before she’d had a chance to write herself: marrying his only daughter off to his untitled bastard.

 

 _King’s son or no, it is an insult not to be borne_ , her mother writes, though they are Father’s words. _We will look into the possibility of an annulment_ , Mother promises, even without knowing that Kenna was married under pain of death. 

 

In the meantime, her father has retaliated in the only manner that remains in his power now that his daughter is wedded (having been bedded before her marriage): refusing her and her new husband her dowry. Of course, it only serves to punish the more innocent parties in this whole mess and has no effect on the king, whose grip on sanity is slipping further every day, if the things he dares to say and do in public are anything to go by.

 

She shakes her head, straining to hear faint snatches of Henry and Bash’s conversation.

 

“There she was, her rump like a ripe apple in my hand. I’d forgotten how she looks from behind, perky as a –”

 

She’s not sure if it’s hearing the oiliness of Henry’s tone so recently after their encounter or his mentioning apples (how vile they are!), but suddenly she has to run for fear that she’ll lose her breakfast before the entire court.

 

\---

 

She hasn’t let her husband touch her since they were married.

 

“There’s no need,” she told him that first night, dressed in the most conservative nightgown she owns. “We both know I’m no virgin and we’ve already slept together.”

 

“I’ll sleep on the floor, then,” he replied, pulling at one of the blankets.

 

She was tempted to let him, but even she felt guilty at the thought of him trying to sleep on stone. “It’s not necessary. As long as you stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. I prefer the right.” It’s a remnant of her childhood years of sleeping beside Mary, who always took the left.

 

In truth, the things that stopped her were – and still are – her pride and her anxiety at having to explain her condition and how he might react to it. Logically, she knows she should be far less afraid than she would be with any other husband because she might have had Bash is actually the father of her child, but the thought of telling him makes her so anxious she can’t breathe, so she continues to put it off.

 

\---

 

But as she changes after emptying her stomach yet again (she still can’t believe her nausea was due neither to smell nor taste this time, but just _words_ and _thoughts_ ), she hears . . . there’s really no other word for it, a _frightening_ sort of chuckle that makes the hairs on her arms stand up.

 

Given her visceral reaction, she fears it’s the king. But when she turns, it’s only Bash.

 

“When my father said I could have a king’s son as my firstborn, I thought his words were the ravings of a mad man.” He scoffs. “Not that it matters of course, after all, _marriage can’t be undone_ ,” he continues mockingly.

 

She has no idea what he’s talking about, but she recognizes the last words as her own on the night of their wedding.

 

“Even when you come to your marriage with child. But no wonder you won’t let yourself be touched or seen.”

 

How – She looks down and sees that she’s not wearing her overskirt. She had already begun removing clothing when Bash stormed in. “It’s not what you think,” she blurts out. _How clichéd of me._

 

“That could mean so many different things.” He laughs, mocking again. “The king’s chambers?”

 

“Excuse me?” She turns away, because he’s angry and she’s still shaken and she doesn’t have the energy for it.

 

“Do you deny you were there?”

 

“We didn’t . . . actually have sex,” she defends herself.

 

“I don’t want to calibrate the exact inch you stopped,” he snaps. “We had an agreement.”

 

“I remember.” But he’s not being _fair_. “I also remember you jumping very high to answer Mary’s beck and call.” She seethes to recall it. She told him she wasn’t jealous, but that’s . . . simply not true. Not true at all, and it’s the first time she’s truly admitted it to herself.

 

“So your visiting my father is a form of childish payback? Or payment for . . . what?”

 

Jealous or no, she wouldn’t do that to herself. Henry not only disgusts her now, he _frightens_ her. “You think I went to the king’s chambers for fun? He’s lost his mind. I was terrified the whole time I was with him.” And not just for herself. She touches her belly, suddenly needing reassurance.  

 

“Why did you go to him, then?”

 

“For Mary. My queen. She asked me to find a secret document that put my country at risk.”

 

“Mary sent you into the lion’s den?” Bash’s tone has changed, as though he’s angry with _Mary_ rather than her.

 

She feels unfairly cheered by it and yet compelled to defend her friend for fairness’ sake. “She asked, and I agreed.”

 

“Still – Did she know –” He gestures towards her midriff.

 

“No. And her request scared me to death, but I wasn’t about to tell her to get myself out of it. I know you don’t think I notice anything that’s not a pretty dress or a jewel, but strangely enough, I give a damn about my country. Henry came in just as I found the paper and there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t tell him why I was really there. But –” She shudders. “His very touch makes me ill.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Somehow, his apology upsets her rather than soothes her. “My country was at stake, but what was at stake for you when Mary batted her eyes and you rushed off to be her true and gentle knight? You’ll never be that knight for me. You’ll be my husband, but never that.” She knows pregnant women have little control over their emotions, but this is ridiculous. She despises the mere _idea_ of crying in front of most people (it’s the thing she hates most about her wedding, second only to the fact that she’d been forced to marry, which was what provoked her tears in the first place), but particularly Bash at this point, let alone over _Mary_.

 

And here she is doing exactly that.

 

“Stop.”

 

“This marriage is based on nothing.” She wants nothing more than for Bash to leave so she can cry properly in peace, but he doesn’t even have the courtesy to do that much for her.

 

“What a pair my father tied together for a lifetime.”

 

And then he does.

 

\---

 

Bash is  . . . contrite, might be the word for it, when he returns many hours later. “We’ve got to try. We’re married, and as you’ve said, it can’t be undone. And even if it could, we’re going to have a child together.”

 

“So you believe me?” she asks sleepily, having only just woken up at his footsteps.

 

“Believe what?”

 

“That it’s yours.”

 

“You never said that.”

 

“You didn’t give me a chance!” she cries as she sits up, sleep wiped away by indignation. “You hounded me about being in Henry’s chambers before I could get another word in edgewise.”

 

Then he scowls. “You needn’t lie, Kenna. We’re married and I’ll accept the child as mine regardless of its true parentage. I’d prefer your honesty.”

 

“It’s the truth!”

 

“How would that even be possible?”

 

“The last time,” she replies. “I’ve been with no one else since.”

 

After a long silence, he simply says, “It’s late, Kenna. You should sleep.”

 

She does. She lies back down, falling asleep with Bash’s fingers run soothingly through her hair.  

 

\---

 

Things are not easy after that, but they’re easier.

 

Catherine offers them use of one of her chateaus, the one that Henry had originally bestowed on “Queen” Penelope, close enough to court to return quickly if needed, but far enough for privacy. For services rendered during that time, Catherine says. But also, though she doesn’t say it, because she’s just as worried as they are about how their mad king will react to his former plaything’s pregnancy, particularly given his recent unwanted advances.

 

The king is so deep in the throes of madness that Kenna fears that, if he should he realize that the baby was conceived before she married Bash, he might think it his own and snatch it from her as soon as it’s born. She’d flee home to Scotland or to Ireland or England or God knows where before giving up her child, but what if she couldn’t outrun the King of France?

 

Or the king might take them at their word that the child is Bash’s and be furious that she gave herself to another – his own son – while he was still toying with her and punish them both and even the baby for it.

 

Or he might not care at all. That’s the unpredictability of madness.

 

They retire to the chateau just as Kenna’s condition has become difficult to conceal, but before the king has taken notice of it, thank God. She’s never been so relieved in her life as she is the day they leave court.

 

\---

 

Once they’ve settled in, they establish a routine of sorts. She focuses on getting their small household up and running and Bash on learning the land.

 

They seem to become their better selves once they leave court, away from the ghosts of their pasts.

 

She tries her hardest not to snap or lash out even when her emotions get the best of her.

 

Bash regularly shows her little kindnesses. Now that her stomach has settled and she craves the oddest sweets and savories, he always makes sure to procure her desired treat. He immediately calls for a cordwainer to make her several new pairs of shoes after he sees her wince and she admits that her own pinch and pain her now. They make a world of difference to her daily comfort.

 

While she could easily have called for the cordwainer herself, she’s touched that Bash noticed her discomfort and did something to relieve it.

 

\---

 

The time comes when her tiny wedding ring no longer fits. She’s irrationally upset by it and Greer thoughtfully makes her a gift of a long gold chain for it when she visits so that Kenna is able to continue wearing it daily.  Later, the “token of sympathy” Catherine gave her during “Queen” Penelope’s nightmarish reign joins her wedding ring on Greer’s chain.

 

\---

 

Kenna finds that just as she can’t fit her feet within the confines of her shoes or her rings over her fingers, she can’t fully contain her desires within herself.

 

Though one would think that with her considerably expanded girth, she _could_. But no.

 

There’s no one offering to help her now, so she takes care of herself, though it’s not easy, as she can’t even see what she’s doing when she lies down and it’s not particularly comfortable to lie down without several pillows. It’s better sitting up, though not as relaxing. Eventually, it occurs to her that it would be far less work to bring herself off in the bath and she finds herself requesting warm rosewater baths often enough that the servants talk, muttering about how much extra work she makes for them, but her baths bring such blessed relief that she doesn’t care.

 

Until the day her husband comes upon her pleasuring herself during one of those baths.

 

Just as she’d wished that night forever ago, he offers to help.

 

Eagerly, wordlessly, she accepts, too aroused to be embarrassed as she ought to be, moaning first her impatience and then her satisfaction loudly and unashamedly.

 

“That was . . . thank you,” she manages after he’s helped her rise from the bath.

 

“Don’t thank me. It’s what husbands do.” He throws her a very uncharacteristic wink before she turns her back to dry herself off.

 

Bash may have just seen her naked, but now that she’s not too distracted by pleasure to even think, she feels self-conscious about her drastically changed figure. Compared to now, she barely just showed the time he saw her _partially_ undressed. She shakes her head once she’s dry and realizes Bash is speaking again.

 

“Perhaps you needn’t save _all_ your . . . indulgences for bath time.” He laughs, but it isn’t mocking. It’s warm. “That is what all these baths are about, isn’t it? I’ve heard the servants complain of their sore arms from carrying all the extra buckets for you.”    

 

She tries to sidestep the matter with a retort about their staff’s wages. “You ought to pay them better if they moan over a single extra task.” She huffs, “It’s just easier –”

 

“Yes, no doubt it is, when you’re relying solely on yourself. But you’re married. You’ve a husband to tend to your needs and all he requires is a flat surface, my –”

 

She doesn’t even let him finish, because it’s quite possibly the most arousing thing she’s ever heard. She catches his hand and all but drags him to their bedchamber, praying he’ll use his mouth where he’s just had his fingers. If memory serves, her husband is blessed with an exceptionally talented tongue.

 

\---

 

She knows the rumors that raged through court like wildfire once people suspected her condition, though thankfully the rumors never reached the king’s ears. They vary wildly.

 

The most popular one is that her child is Henry’s and he foisted his unborn bastard child off on his grown bastard son rather than take responsibility himself.

 

Another is that her child is neither Henry’s nor Bash’s, but she’s had so many men that she does not even know who the father is and Bash has been left to clean up the mess.

 

The most generous one, preferred by less jaded courtiers (recent arrivals and the unusually sentimental), is that she and Bash had slept together while he was engaged to Mary (never in a million years would he have done it) because they were in love, as in love as Mary and Francis. And that Bash’s loss of potential legitimization had been worth it to him because he’d regained the woman he loved.

 

It’s awful that those rumors are her first thought when she sees her perfect daughter, but it’s mostly relief that the baby’s green eyes clearly mark her as _their_ child. _If only they stay just so._ It’s unusual that her daughter’s eyes are so green – are any color but blue, in fact, the midwife told her. She says they’re more likely to stay green than not if this is what they are at birth. 

“May I?” Bash calls from the door after the midwife and extra servants Mary sent from court with Bash to assist the midwife have cleaned her, the baby, and her chambersup.

 

“Of course.”

 

He peers down at the bundle in her arms. “She’s beautiful. Like her mother.”

 

“Flatterer. I’m hardly beautiful. At the moment,” she adds, her vanity showing through.

 

“Mother once told me childbed is more of an ordeal than most battlefields, but I think you’ve acquitted yourself well from the look of you both.”

 

“It’s more dangerous, for some women.”

 

“Let us be grateful you’ve made it through well, then.” He’s serious, too serious for her taste and she feels guilty for bringing up the dangers that she, thankfully, did not fall prey to.

 

“I very much like being alive,” Kenna retorts lightly. “I’m too merry to die and you’d make a terrible widower anyway, all brooding without me to cheer you up. And I don’t fancy the idea of some other woman raising my daughter.”

 

“Who says I’d remarry?” He’s trying to joke along with her, but he’s not quite there, still a touch too serious.

 

“Your mother, most likely. She’d be quite pleased to find you a more suitable wife.”

 

“Kenna!”

 

“Fine. I won’t trouble you with such talk, because you won’t be rid of me for a long while yet.”

 

“How fortunate I am.”

 

“But speaking of your mother, her and half the court’s suspicions will be quieted once they get a look at the baby,” she says smugly.

 

Bash doesn’t look like he’s following her.

 

“Well, they’re closed right now, but when she opens her eyes properly, you’ll see they’re just like yours. Startlingly green. The midwife says that’s very unusual for a newborn.”

 

“I suppose if she’s going to have any of my looks, they’re my best feature. I’ve gotten many compliments on my ‘fine eyes.’” He’s a tiny bit smug as he runs a hand over the dark, downy hair covering their drowsing daughter’s tiny head. 

 

She can’t resist the urge to tease him again. “Very fine eyes indeed.” She smirks, recalling one of the old biddies who just wouldn’t let him escape and complimented exactly so. It was one of the few times she wasn’t jealous of all the lustful looks thrown her husband’s way by ladies of the court.

 

He sticks his tongue out at her, remembering it just as well. “Does our daughter have a name?”

 

“What do you think of Aileene? A good Scottish name, but there can be an e at the end to have a more French spelling.”

 

He tests it out. “Aileene de Poitiers. Pretty.”

 

“It means light bearer.”

 

“That’s nice. And a middle name? After you?”

 

“Wouldn’t you prefer after your mother?”

 

“You’re the one that had to labor to bring her into the world. I defer to your judgment.”

 

“I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

 

“How about Catherine?”

 

They both laugh.

 

“Your mother would think it was my idea.” She realizes that it hurts to laugh. “We have to be serious. Laughing hurts a bit.”

 

His smile fades some as he looks at her with concern. “Are you in much pain?”

 

“Nothing like the birth itself. I think she’ll have to be the only. No more for me.” She smiles so he knows she’s teasing – she doesn’t want him to get broody again – and that she’s (mostly) all right.

 

“Pity,” he returns in the same tone. “She needs a brother.”

 

“Why?”

 

Bash grins, wide and just _gorgeous_ , and somehow she knows before the words come out of his mouth. “Catherine might not actually be a bad choice for a middle name. You know the queen was always against my father giving me his name or any titles, but now she thinks it reflects poorly on Francis that his deputy has no title and no lands of his own. She said that there is no greater honor for a courtier than to speak for the king and that my status should match my role, else it undermines Francis’ strength.”

 

She tries not to be too eager. “And?”

 

“You’re now the wife of a baron.”

 

She smiles at him and then down at their daughter, who’s starting to fuss. “No fussing for you,” she chides happily, making a noise she hopes is soothing before she turns her smile back to Sebastian. “Well, now, if there’s a title to be inherited, I suppose I can’t give up on a boy yet.”

 

“And lands.”

 

“Lands?”

 

“You can’t have a title without lands. Title to this chateau and the land from Catherine herself, lands further from court attached to the title as well.”

 

“Well, isn’t this our lucky day?” she says to Bash as much as to Aileene, whose fussing is now more obviously what the midwife told her to look out for. _You’ll know when she’s hungry, m’lady. She’ll sort of, er, root around, looking for her mother’s breast._

 

“Apparently this has been decided and the letters patent signed for some time, but Mary thought it would be a ‘lovely surprise’ – her words, not mine – for them to be given when the baby came.” He looks so very pleased and she’s pleased for him.

 

She smiles her pleasure as she adjusts Aileene in her arms so she can eat. It hurts, the sharp, sudden pain of the unfamiliar, a pain that dulls as Aileene beings to suck properly and nature takes it course.

 

Bash watches them and, oddly, she feels no embarrassment. She never guessed she would’ve felt comfortable nursing a child before her husband, but here she is. They’re both silent, not wanting to disturb Aileene and it gives her time to think.

 

As Bash’s brother, it’s not Francis’ place to recognize him. It was Henry’s and he never honored Bash the way he ought to have done, the way other kings honor their natural sons, for the love they bear them and to make up for the disadvantage of their bastard birth as best they can.

 

Instead, Francis – on the advice of _Catherine_ , of all people – has acknowledged Bash in a way their father never did, one Kenna suspects is far more meaningful to her husband, because it’s not about blood. It’s about the kind of man Bash is, about how Francis – not Bash’s little brother Francis, but King Francis II – trusts him to speak and act in his name and holds him in highest esteem. It’s true that there is likely no small amount of brotherly love involved in this honor but the king’s chief motivation is respect and gratitude.

 

Once Aileene seems to have had her fill, Kenna gestures for her husband to sit on the bed with them and poses an important question to him. “I just want to be clear – I could’ve called myself a baroness for ages now?”

 

“Hardly _ages_ , Kenna.”

 

“Hmph. Your aunt is silly, dearest,” she tells Aileene, who’s falling asleep properly now. Mary or Marie might be a good middle name for her. In fact, it might be seen as a slight if she’s named for anyone _but_ Mary, as Mary is both Bash’s sister-in-law and her queen twice over. “And your father, too.”

 

“Don’t listen to your mother, even if she’s very beautiful.”

 

“Hush, you,” she says playfully. “Baby’s sleeping.”

 

When Bash says nothing, she looks up from the baby to him and finds that he’s looking at her very oddly.

 

“Bash?”

 

“I know we  . . . didn’t get off to the best start, but I . . .” He places one hand over one of hers , the one that’s not supporting Aileene’s head, and squeezes. “Thank you. Thank you, Kenna.”

 

“Whatever for?”

 

“Aileene, making this a home, being a good wife.”

 

It’s not particularly poetic, but it might be the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. “I wouldn’t have this – any of this – without you either,” she tells him. _Thank you, too._

 

“Certainly not Aileene,” he says self-deprecatingly.

 

“Isn’t it hard to believe _we_ made this perfect little creature? I’m rather proud of us.”

 

“Well done indeed, wife,” he says with another one of those rare smiles of his that she’s seen so much of today.

 

She bites back the words that almost spill from her lips when she sees the soft, warm (dare she say – _no, not yet_ ) look in Bash’s eyes, deciding they’re best left for another day.

 

She hopes to elicit that elusive smile again.

 

Her life isn’t what she expected, but it’s rather nice all the same.


End file.
